


Italics, Bold, Underline

by yamyamyam



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Because dem biceps, Blow Jobs, But Bucky forgives him, Clint makes terrible jokes during sex, Clint needs google translate on his phone stat but oops spying so oh well, Competence Kink, Deaf Clint Barton, Dorks in Love, Enemies to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Human Disaster Clint Barton, I have a short attention span, M/M, No Björks were harmed in the writing of this fic, Not compliant with anything after that pretty much, Pineapple Hello Kitty, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Slow Burn, but not that slow, i assume, so many trains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-19 20:54:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17608790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yamyamyam/pseuds/yamyamyam
Summary: Clint is caught high and dry after the SHIELD data dump.Bucky is caught... in a starbucks?Together theyfight crimemake out.





	1. London

Clint had always known in his heart that paperwork was evil, and this proved it. HYDRA had infiltrated SHIELD (what?!) and Natasha had released everything in their records, everything, for something something reasons, and now every mission, every stockpile, every identity, every safehouse that Clint had ever begrudgingly, foot-draggingly, but accurately entered in mission reports and disclosure forms and inventories was floating in the wind, which, by the way, so was his sorry ass.

A bullet whooshes past his sorry ass. Right. Less fuming, more shooting, Barton, keep it together.

An hour, two cars, 3 exploding arrows (and where the fuck is he going to get more of those now?) and not enough coffee later, Clint is behind an archery supply shop outside of Birmingham, waiting in a tree until the owner locks up for the night so he can break in and resupply, if not with trick arrows, at least with some decent standard arrows and other kit. 

A dedicated archery supply shop, god he loves missions in England. They do right by their boy Robin Hood's memory. He had almost detoured to Nottingham instead of Birmingham - actual fucking Nottingham! - but decided to avoid being a total archery cliché while trying to disappear. Heh. Might run in to the sheriff there.

Oh my god, focus, Barton.

Right. Stock up on arrows, find something to eat, and head to London to disappear for a while. Safehouse or no safehouse, if he can't disappear in a city the size of London, his name isn't Clint Barton.

Clint can't disappear in a city the size of London. 

He makes a good go of it to start. He has a cramped, overpriced hotel room in the Docklands and a great tourist outfit if he does say so himself, with khaki dad-pants, sunglasses, and a sad, sad lack of purple - stealth requires sacrifices. He has a _fanny pack_. He is devoted to his craft. 

He spends a week and a half as touristClint, visiting museums here and there and hitting internet cafés to see if he can find some way to contact Natasha that won't blow up in his face. But no response so far at the few addresses not blown wide by the data dump. Clint has a new burner phone, but no one to call; he can't see Nat keeping her compromised phone numbers. The number of her most recent text to him before the data-barf-ocalypse was definitely out of service now; he'd tried that in Manchester before fucking off, figuring he had nothing to lose since his location there was already up in lights.

This morning he is out on a coffee run before planning today's sight-seeing and internet trawling. His room has a tea kettle for proper Britons to make use of, but coffee is for tourists. Tourists like him. Unremarkable tourists like him. Not to mention archers who have had a long fucking fortnight thank you very much, and want a goddamn VAT of coffee. Wait, VAT means something different here, doesn't it.

He is standing in line at a Starbucks - and Clint is surprised by how comforted he is by this American standby in the wake of so much turmoil in the rest of his life - with other Not From Around Here economy-boosters. He raises his sunglasses to look at his I Am Definitely A Tourist map. Maybe he'll visit the London Eye today. Talk about sightlines. 

The family of five ahead of him has managed to finish paying for their pastries and drinks after some confusion about whether they're supposed to use Euros or Pounds, so he steps up to the register, ready to order a... Fuck.

The barista is the Winter Soldier.

HOW IS THAT SENTENCE EVEN POSSIBLE.

Before all his phones, dead drops, secret forums, and other secure lines of communication had gone up in so much The Internet Is Forever smoke, Nat had texted him a warning: the Winter Soldier is active again. And that Steve thought it was his dead best friend.

Clint hasn't had a lot of time to catch up on American news in the last few days, and what he has seen of the mess in DC was pretty grainy. And the guy should be dead, but then, so should Steve. 

What Clint does know, though, is Bucky Barnes's face. Up until he and Barney hit the foster system and ran away, he grew up with Captain America and Bucky action figures, Captain America comics, Captain America trading cards... and when you're trying real, real hard not to hear your parents fighting, not to attract the attention of your dad and his whisky and his fists, you sink in to your imaginary worlds hard. Clint knew Steve right away from the picture when the headlines hit about his revival from the ice. And Clint knows this face, here, now: James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes.

Oh crap, how long has he been staring? Bucky is staring back, not looking nervous, but so completely still that it has to be control, not casual relaxation. Clint's eyes flick involuntarily to his hands, and they are each in opaque latex gloves. It's not so unusual for a food service worker, but the other café worker isn't wearing any. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

"Do you need a minute to think?" 

It's a really good British accent, and Clint tries to look like a clueless tourist just struck by indecision. Clueless is not a hard look for Clint to pull off, he has to admit. 

"I ah... a grande mocha, one extra shot." Bucky dutifully rings this in and inscribes the cup. 

"Triple grande mocha. Got a name for that?" 

This at least Clint has thought ahead to. He's Frank Ashcroft, bus driver from Cleveland, taking his first vacation in years. "James," his mouth says. What. WHAT. 

Bucky looks up sharply at him, face still schooled to blankness, still holding himself so carefully motionless. The light gleams on his "TRAINEE" name badge. Clint's eyes widen in panic. "Well, that will be three pounds seventy, James." Clint pays in cash, and moves aside for the next customer. Clint turns around and walks calmly out of the café. Sort of calmly. Calm-esque. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Okay. Okay that could have been just... a mistaken identity, right? Because what are the odds that... But the way he jumped at "James." The gloves. And well, that face. That face. Clint KNOWS that face, has looked at it over and over in comics and cards and library books, had realized he wasn't straight by dreaming about it, even. That's him. That has to be him.

Okay. Okay, calm down. You're a professional. You're a spy. You can do this. He's still in the café and he can't just run out in the middle of his shift, right? He's obviously trying to avoid catching attention too. Clint tries to soothe himself with this logic, but in the back of his mind the words "Winter Soldier" repeat over and over, and every tall tale of impossible kills, inhuman tracking, ghost-like disappearances comes bubbling to the top to unnerve him.

Clint heads back to his hotel room, taking a meandering route with a few false turns, a visit to a Tesco where he exits through the stock room, and calms down a bit, gets his tourist chill back in gear. He gets to his room, throws the dirty shirt from the floor in his duffle and has a quick hair salon moment in the bathroom. It's not pretty, but it's at least _shorter_ bedhead than he had ten minutes ago. The fanny pack comes off, a bland, dark outfit goes on. Frank Ashcroft paid in cash last night. Time for Clint "Can't Fucking Hide In London" Barton to get the fuck out of England. Because as much as he wants to know why the HELL Bucky Barnes is a Starbucks barista in a convention centre, not exactly a low-profile hideout, getting his ass out of the fire is priority one.

Several sneaky hours later, Clint is at St. Pancras station, without any further legendary spy sightings. He purchases a EuroStar ticket with his last remaining unburned passport - he'll need to run down some new paper in France - and he is feeling a little better about life. He springs for business class - Raymond Thibaudeau, inventory management specialist, is billing this to the company - and buys a return ticket just to muddy the trail further. He hides in the business class lounge washroom until a few minutes before departure and heads to the train. He finds his seat, a single facing an empty seat - perfect. He is disappointed when a sharply dressed man sits down opposite him just before the train starts moving. Oh well. Clint pretends to read a magazine, his eyes glazing over, and Business Dude opposite him - who wears a 3-piece suit on a train? He even has poncy kid gloves to go with the poncy wool overcoat draped over the seat back - opens a laptop on the table between them and starts typing, glancing from time to time at a notebook next to it. They're well in to the Chunnel when business dude turns his laptop around to face Clint. Clint continues to look at his magazine. Business weirdo taps the table next to the laptop with his right index finger to get Clint's attention.

On screen, a single window is open, a word processor which is displaying: 

         Who the hell is Raymond Thibaudeau?

Clint's eyes widen and he looks up. Into Bucky Barnes's face. "Pardon me..." he tries, standing up as if heading to the washroom. A polished loafer hooks his leg. Clint looks down at the foot and up at Bucky's face. "Sorry man, I've really gotta go." The shoe quietly, firmly, pushes Clint back in to his seat. Bucky takes the laptop back and types another sentence, then turns it back to Clint. 

         Or should I ask about Clint Barton?

Well, fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint totally knows that fanny means something different here too, and made sure to loudly discuss his fanny pack in shops so he could giggle in his head like he's 12, because in his head, he's 12.


	2. Paris

         Who's asking?

         I get the feeling you know who I am, "James." You never came back for your mocha.

         Great, I guess we both know who we are. Nice talking to you. 

Bucky raises an eyebrow. Clint wilts a bit.

         I'm not coming in.

         FFS, where exactly do you think I would take you? I'm kind of between law enforcement agencies at the moment.

         You work with Steve.

         You don't want to see him? I thought he was your best bud.

         I can't see him.

         Why not?

         I have my reasons. Now what are you running off to do with my ID and location?

         Actually I'm kind of just... running off.

         You expect me to believe that?

         You know SHIELD blew up, right? I mean you know who I am, you must know that.

         I know SHIELD was Hydra.

         Well I'm fucking not.

Bucky looks up at him, looking skeptical. Clint sighs and takes the laptop again.

         Look, if you're not going to believe anything I say, and you're just going to shoot me when we get to Paris,  
         do we have to play twenty questions? I kind of want a final nap. Plus I really do have to pee.

         I'm not going to kill you. I don't... I'm not going to.

         Well... good?

         But I can't let you turn me in.

         I told you, I'm not going to. I'm just trying to lie low too, until I can get back to my friends. Look, how about we make a deal.

         What.

         You tell me why you don't want to see Steve, and I'll help you.

         I don't exactly need your help, **_Raymond._**

         Wow, italics and bold. Harsh.

         Don't make me use underline.

Clint looks up, suspiciously. Bucky's grim expression is marred by just the tiniest hint of an upward quirk at the corner of his mouth. Is he... is he smiling at Clint? Clint can't help himself; he cracks a smile at Bucky. Bucky sighs heavily and rolls his eyes as he takes the laptop back, but Clint is sure now that he's smiling. Smiling is good. Smiling means no killing. Probably.

         I tried to kill Steve last time I saw him. The last two times.  
         And I don't know whether I'll be able to control myself if I see him again. So I can't see him again.

Clint reads this and looks up again, taking in Bucky's now very solemn face. He closes the laptop and says in a low voice "Shit, man, that's heavy. I promise. I won't contact Steve, and I'll help you any way I can."

Bucky looks him in the eyes searchingly for a long moment, then nods to himself, apparently finding what he was looking for. Or deciding to murder Clint in the city of love, you know, whatevs. 

"Talk more in Paris." 

"So, I can pee?" 

Bucky rolls his eyes and waves him off.

=====

When they arrive in Paris, a firm hand on Clint's elbow guides him to the RER, and from there on a series of bewildering transfers through the metro system that Clint is pretty sure take them almost in a circle. 

"Where are we going?" he asks, after the second change. 

"Paris Disneyland." 

"Really?!" 

"No." 

"...Oh." 

"We're going to a hotel," Bucky says slowly, eyeing Clint like he is a preschooler. "How are you even a spy." 

"Things have been a little weird lately, okay?" Bucky's eyebrows say "No shit, Sherlock" nonverbally and Clint goes back to meekly waiting to be guided to the next metro station.

===== 

They arrive, check in, and it's somehow even smaller than Clint's London base of operations. There is a tiny toilet, sink, and shower area separated from the rest of the room by a shower curtain instead of a wall - classy! - and a single bed. Bucky, his hand behind his neck, reddens slightly as Clint takes this in. "I ah, wasn't sure I'd have company." Clint takes this to mean _I was pretty sure I was going to have to kill you_ and suddenly feels flattered.

"So uh... how did you end up as a barista in London?"

"I kind of... don't remember all of it."

"How do you not remember fleeing to London and getting a job?"

Bucky suddenly looks guarded. "I know how I got to London. The rest is just. It's complicated."

Clint settles down on the bed. "I don't have anywhere to be."

Bucky hesitates, then pulls out the laptop they were playing walkie talkie with on the train, then unholsters a gun - Clint should probably be alarmed, but he's just impressed; he'd been relieved that he managed to get his bow through customs, never mind a firearm - and extracts a usb key from a hidden pocket inside the holster. 

Clint has got to get the name of this guy's paranoid tailor, that is a super cool trick. Or, wait, it's probably Hydra. Maybe he won't ask. 

Bucky puts the usb key in the laptop, rapidly enters a password, and passes the laptop to Clint. "Read this. It'll explain some things. And I don't want to talk about it."

Bucky lays himself down and appears to fall asleep immediately, although Clint is pretty sure if he tried to leave the room he'd be up in a second. He nudges Bucky's feet over a bit and swings his legs up to sit on the end of the bed, and starts reading.

It's a SHIELD dossier, the kind he's seen hundreds of times before, and if Clint had any doubts about whether SHIELD really had been riddled with Hydra, this puts paid to them. It starts out as a typical briefing file, with sightings, known abilities, speculated allegiance, usual weapons; the few scattered hard facts that Clint would have had access to. But then it goes deeper in to squid town. It has a detailed log of every mission hinted at in the first section, and twice as many more. Assassinations, bombings, sabotage, surveillance. And... procedures. Done on the Winter Soldier. On Bucky. Going back almost 70 years. Some with a veneer of medical necessity, like replacing his lost arm; some that aren't even pretending not to be torture.

He reads a cold, clinical description of how much weight can be lifted and how far the subject can run on a treadmill with 5% blood loss, 10%, 20%, 40%, Jesus Christ. Clint is starting to regret his 3-course Business Class meal on the train. And the chair... He needs to take a moment after reading "Subject does not appear to be operationally affected by extreme pain. Recommend withholding sedation and analgesis to accelerate time from cryogenic storage to mission readiness." 

It sounds like he should have asked Bucky how he remembered anything at all after all that brain-fuckery, not how he could forget something. 

Along with the written reports and photographs - and oh god, he knows what's going to be guest-starring in his next nightmare, not that he was lacking for nightmare fodder after 20 years as an agent, not to mention 3 days as Loki's thrall - there are video files. He pulls one up, the thumbnail showing grainy security camera footage of Bucky strapped in to a chair.

He can pretty well guess what will happen next from the text, but some morbid impulse strikes and he hits play. Immediately Bucky is sitting up, his left hand on the spacebar pausing playback and his right hand on Clint's wrist, holding it firmly away from the trackpad. 

"No."

"Right. Okay. Sorry."

Bucky looks thoughtfully at him for a long moment and eventually lets go of his hand. Clint hands back the laptop.

"So..."

"Seventy years of brain damage. So yeah, my memory isn't 100% anymore."

"Bucky, I..."

"I said I didn't want to talk about it. Just. If we're going to do this, you needed to know."

Clint's not sure what "this" is, but something in him lightens to be included in Bucky's plans so casually. Like okay, I'm not going to kill you, now we're buds. Clint can work with this. Clint looks over at Bucky, who is stowing the USB key and the laptop, his face lit in warm tones by a sunbeam filtered through the cheap gauzy curtains over the single window. God he's beautiful. Clint can definitely work with this.

Bucky looks over at him.

"How about you, why aren't you back in America collecting spy unemployment or whatever now?"

Good fucking question. "I don't really know what to do next, I guess. I've worked for SHIELD for, god, 20 years now. Fuck, I guess I've been working for Hydra, though, haven't I." Clint makes a frustrated fist, idly tucking his thumb in and out of his fingers while he speaks. He sets Hydra and his complicity therein aside to freak out about later. Or never. Clint is nothing if not good at postponing panic, or he'd never have lasted this long as a sniper. "And before that I was in the circus. I don't even have a high school diploma. My résumé's not exactly up to date, you know? Plus I don't know if 8,000 hydra heads are going to pop up trying to kill me if I travel openly. If I could get ahold of Natasha..."

"Romanova."

"Yeah. She's my partner. Usually. This thing in England was a one-off. It was supposed to be an easy passive surveillance job, no need for two agents. Until suddenly everyone on the internet knew what I was doing, down to which fucking tree I was hiding in."

Bucky barks out a surprised laugh.

"Yeah well I got clear of it, just. I'm kind of adrift. So if you want to road trip it up on the down-low, let's... pool our resources?"

Bucky blows out a long breath.

"I can probably find Natalia for you. If you want to leave, I'll let you."

"No."

"No? Just like that?"

"I mean, yes, I want to get in touch with Natasha. But.. no, I don't want to leave."

"Why not?"

"Steve's been a good friend to me. I figure I owe it to him to help his best friend if I can, you know? And you need me."

"I do, do I?" Bucky looks amused.

"If you can't remember going to barista school? Hell yes you do. If I found you in London, how long was it going to be before someone else did?"

"You didn't exactly find me on purpose."

"But I could have, and you have to know people are looking for you. You need someone to watch your back and remind you to look at your nametag when you forget where you are."

"Did you seriously just make fun of my memory. Seventy years of torture, you asshole."

"I definitely just made fun of your memory. And it was _hilarious_."

Bucky lies back down, rolling over to face the wall to cover a grin. "I am so going to underline you." he deadpans, affecting to fall back asleep before Clint can make a witty retort.

Clint was TOTALLY gonna have one, too. 

=====

Bucky awakens in the evening and grunts "I'll be back. Don't leave." before disappearing for two hours. He returns with four sandwiches, a bag with some casual clothing in it, and most intriguingly, several more passports than he had left with.

"Holy shit, you are a power shopper," Clint says, grabbing at a sandwich.

"We still need to find a photo booth before we go anywhere too exciting," Bucky says modestly.

"I saw one at the train station, actually."

"One that doesn't print Hello Kitty on the photos?"

"Uhh. Maybe not." What, it looked cute!

"Ah, I'm just razzing you, there's a shop down the street that does 'em, we can go in the morning."

"Do you even know who Hello Kitty is?"

"I didn't miss the whole 20th century, you know."

"Were you ever sent to assassinate her?"

Bucky smirks. "Classified."

=====

Bedtime is awkward. Eventually they work out a configuration with their heads at opposite ends, but half an hour later Bucky is shaking Clint awake, a murderous gleam in his eye.

"Hunh? Whazz.. Bucky? What's wrong?"

Bucky waves his hands violently and says something, Clint is pretty sure. "Hang on, hang on, I can't hear you. Turn on the light."

Bucky turns on the light, visibly fuming. His face softens a bit as he watches Clint rummage through his bag, pull out a little case, and put his hearing aids in. "Oh. I didn't realize you--"

"'S fine, I don't exactly advertise it. Although I guess it's pretty public knowledge now, it was definitely in my SHIELD file." Clint sighs. "Tony made me these stealth babies, can hardly see 'em in most light and they can double as coms."

"How nice for you."

"Right, so... what's up? Are you okay? Did you forget where you are?"

"No, I didn't forget where I was. I couldn't possibly, since you were here _kicking me awake_ to help me remember."

"Oh. Uh. Sorry about that." Clint offers sheepishly. "I can... sleep on the floor?"

They both look down at the floor, orange shag carpeting that may or may not be on the WHO's list of top ten health threats in the developed world. Clint pokes it dubiously with a socked foot. Bucky sighs heavily.

"Look, just. C'mere." Bucky squooshes back against the wall and pats the mattress beside him. Clint hesitates a moment, sensing a trap. Bucky looks exasperated. "If your head is up here, your feet are down there," he explains slowly. "Where they can't kick me. IN THE FACE."

"Right! Uh. Right. Hang on."

Clint tosses his pillow up the bed and says "Okay, taking my ears back off." Bucky, rolled over to face the wall, raises a sarcastic thumbs-up. Can thumbs be sarcastic? It's definitely at least sardonic. Well, kicking could do that to a person. Clint settles in and shuts off the light.

He must make it through the night without kicking too much, because when he opens his eyes, morning light is streaming through the completely ineffective hotel curtains. Bucky is plastered against his side like a barnacle, one leg pinning him down, flesh hand gripping his t-shirt, metal arm lost under Clint's pillow. Huh. 

Clint's body is way ahead of him in noticing this; he is hard as a rock. Morning wood worthy of a teenager with an underwear catalogue is... not helpful at this exact moment. Clint debates whether he can successfully extract himself without waking _the legendary assassin with 70 years of experience_ and okay, what's plan B. Clint looks at the shag carpeting, desperately willing its profound unsexiness to take over, but now all he can think of is "heh heh shagging" and oh no, Bucky is moving. Bucky's leg is... now on top of Clint's dick. Teenaged Clint would faint dead away of joy knowing this moment was in his future, but current Clint is not ready to deal with this situation before coffee. Okay. Okay. Fortune favours the bold. Clint hops out of bed in one violent motion, hoping he didn't nut Bucky in the process, and keeps his back to the bed as he presses his aids in and roots around for fresh clothes in his bag.

"What the fuck was that?!"

Clint turns his head casually. "Oh, Bucky, you're awake!"

Bucky just stares at Clint, rubbing an elbow that Clint must just have kicked. Oops.

Clint reddens and turns his head back to his Serious Duffle Bag Business.

Bucky breathes out heavily. "You're the worst. I get first shower." Bucky swings out of bed, muttering "Неуклюжий придурок." under his breath.

"I heard that!"

"You were supposed to!"

=====

Eventually they're both ready to go, Clint's pants situation back under control after some shower therapy while biting his hand to keep from crying out while he came. He hopes that made it subtle enough, anyhow. Bucky checks them out of the room; apparently Paris is a one-night stop. Well, that's smart; he won't know what kind of trail Clint left on his way to the train, other than it wasn't good enough to keep Bucky from finding him like he'd lit up a flare. Clint's professional pride is still smarting about that a little bit, even if it was the winter fucking soldier who tracked him down.

Bucky leads them to a little café and they sit outside; it's cold but sunny, which after London is a pleasant treat. A waiter arrives and looks at Bucky.

"Un café au lait, un croissant, et une coupe de fruits pour moi, merci. Raymond?"

Clint looks a little taken-aback by Bucky's flawless French, but hey, coffee, the universal language, right? Holding up one finger, he says "One venti cuppa de café, bonjour?" Wait, fuck. "Uh, s'il vous plaît?"

Bucky and the waiter look at him. Bucky sighs. "C'est mon cousin Canadien. Pas du Québec, évidemment." The waiter smiles knowingly at Bucky and nods. "Il voudrait un café americain et deux pains au chocolat." 

"Ah, c'est bon, monsieur."

The waiter walks off and Bucky's smile drops. "Well now all our food's gettin' spat in, you dork."

"I never said I spoke French!"

"You picked "Thibaudeau" for a cover name and you don't speak French? Are you serious?"

"I didn't have a lot of choice about it! I was down to one unburned cover!" But Bucky's chest is shaking with the effort of not laughing, and Clint relaxes.

"What was your plan gonna be when you didn't know I had followed you?"

"I was gonna be an Ugly American tourist."

Bucky looks at him consideringly. "Well you got the American part down at least." Clint startles as his brain catches up to this. Is Bucky _flirting_ with him? "But seriously, you speak Russian, but not French? That is so backward."

Clint huffs. "It's not weird to _only_ speak four languages, you know. Anyway I had to learn Russian, or I'd never know what Nat was calling me."

Breakfast arrives, and Clint finds out what pain au chocolat is, and any animosity he was harbouring toward Bucky, fake or otherwise, dissolves rapidly in the face of buttery pastry goodness.

=====

In the end they do wind up getting photos at the train station - there's a boring, Sanrio-free option that comes out close enough to passport size to pass muster with a little arts and crafts work in the bathroom. Bucky leaves Clint to buy the train tickets - "Pick somewhere where you can order food this time." - with one set of their new IDs, while he leafs through French comic books at a kiosk nearby. He's the proud owner of three Oncle Picsou mega-collections when Clint returns. Clint giggles. Quietly.

"What."

"Nothing!"

They have a few hours to kill until the train, and spend a while taking the metro randomly and wandering around. They have sodas in the park around the Rodin Museum and Clint picks up a "Rodin Hood" magnet in the gift shop.

At one point they are strolling along the Seine with the actual Eiffel tower in the distance, and Clint feels like he's in a damn postcard. They come to a pedestrian bridge covered in padlocks and stop.

Bucky tilts his head. "Well this is... quaint." 

"No, no, I read about this in a romance novel! You write your initials and your SO's initials on it, and then lock it to the bridge and throw the key in the river, so your love will last forever."

"A romance novel, huh?"

"Yeah? How's your Donald Duck comic, Mr. Judgy Librarian?"

Bucky kneels down and casually crushes a lock with his metal hand. "Ah love, so fleeting."

Clint is having a sudden pants situation. Jesus Christ that was hot. "Romance is dead," he manages out loud. But Clint had been itching to pull out his picks ever since the bridge came in to view and can't find it in him to scold Bucky for messing with the locks.


	3. Milan

They board the train as dark is falling, and are alone in their compartment - slow train day? Or maybe Clint picked a shitty route, but whatever, the fewer eyes on them the better. He dozes off to the swaying of the train while Bucky does an honest-to-god connect-the-dots puzzle in one of his comic books.

It's full dark when he awakens sharply with the sense that something is wrong. No one new in the compartment... "Bucky?" Bucky has a glassy look to his eyes, his hands shaking, breath coming in gasps. Clint crosses over to sit beside him, grasping his shoulders with his hands. "Bucky? You with me, buddy?"

Buddy focuses on Clint suddenly. "Need to get off. Need to get off NOW."

Clint's eyes widen. Bucky shakes off Clint's hands and his own hands resume trembling. "Okay, we can do that. Real soon, okay? You want to tell me why?" Clint's not sure Bucky actually hears him; he's breathing more and more quickly and the far-away stare is back. An announcement comes over the PA and the train begins to slow. Clint's not sure what the announcement said - hell, he's not sure what language it was in, the PA has seen better days - but it sounds like a stop is coming up. "Okay, we're getting off in just a minute, okay? Hang in there for me?"

Clint collects their two bags and takes Bucky's right hand. It's clammy and he's still breathing like he's just run a race, but he follows Clint passively enough when he leads them off the train when the train does in fact stop a few minutes later. Clint steers Bucky over to a bench outside the station and gently pushes him down. It's the middle of the night and chilly enough that their breath is visible in the crisp air, but the cold seems to revive Bucky a bit.

"Fuck. Fuck!" he punches his thigh.

"Hey, hey, it's okay." Clint tentatively covers Bucky's hands with his own. "You back with me now?"

"Yeah, I... Yeah." Bucky's fisted hands start to relax under Clint's.

"I get those sometimes too."

"What?"

"Panic attacks. I get them sometimes."

Bucky stares at his shoes.

"In New York, when the aliens... uh, were you awake for that? Aliens in New York?"

Bucky pushes out a long breath and cocks his head, looking like he's trying to put something together. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I was in... let's just say Hydra had an interest in salvage. After."

"Salvage. Christ." Clint takes that in and shakes his head. "Anyway. I don't know if you heard about the guy who led the attack, Loki. Well he had... some fucking magic wand thing that could control your mind. I know, right? But aliens. And I was... I was one of his first recruits."

Bucky looks up at this, meets Clint's eyes. Clint looks away, but squeezes back when Bucky flips their hands and takes Clint's in his.

"I killed... I'm not sure how many people I killed. A lot. I tried to kill Nat. And god knows how many people in New York died because I helped him. I took everything I knew, and just like that, it was his, I was his, and I helped him." Clint pauses to take a few breaths, collect himself. 

"And the worst thing? I was happy. The whole time, all I could think was how happy it made me to do whatever he fucking told me to. How happy he'd be when I thought up some new way to help him kill my friends."

"Jesus Christ."

"And sometimes it just, hits me, you know? And I have a panic attack. Like that."

"A panic attack. Huh."

"I guess that wasn't a thing in your day?"

"In my day. Pfffft. I bet you're older than me."

"You know what I mean!"

"I dunno, we'd have called it... a fit? I guess? It wasn't really something you talked about."

"Do you want to? Talk about it?"

Bucky blows out a big breath of air, takes a few more slow breaths. Clint waits.

"It was the train. I was... Suddenly I was on the train again, way back when, and if I didn't get off, I was gonna fall again. I had to get off the train right away or it would all happen again. It felt so..."

"Intense?"

"I was gonna go with nauseating."

"But you were fine on the train to Paris."

"Yeah, it was fine. It's like, I knew about the train before. I read about it, I know that's how I... how I'm supposed to have died. But I didn't _remember_ it, you know? It didn't feel real. Now, well. Now I remember it."

"Shitty."

"Yeah. Anyway I feel fine now, we can get back on."

"Eh, it's long gone. We were only going a few more stops anyway, here's as good as anywhere."

"Where are we?"

"Milan."

"Hold on. You speak Italian and you still couldn't fucking order coffee?"

"I don't speak Italian."

Bucky looks at Clint. It's not just a look. It's a Look. The Look judges.

"You just said pick a place where I can order food! And I want pizza!"

"You want pizza."

"Bucky, I want pizza SO MUCH."

"You are a disaster, you know that?"

Clint grins. "I've been told."

=====

3 AM pizza is not to be had, and 3 AM hotels are thin on the ground too. The only one with a room available in easy striking distance is a Hilton. The night clerk thankfully speaks English, although Bucky insists on conducting the transaction, apparently worried Clint would manage to book them in to the kitchen or something. Clint cringes a bit when he hears the price, but Bucky waves Clint off.

"Don't worry about it," he says once they're in the elevator. "We're fine for cash."

Clint is stupidly pleased for a moment at being included in Bucky's we. "Yeah? That Starbucks pay you pretty well?"

"I liberated a few Hydra bank accounts on my way out of DC."

Clint holds up a fist. Bucky raises an eyebrow.

"You hold up your fist too and bump mine! It's called a fist bump."

"I know how, I'm just not twelve."

"Oh my god, you are so ninety-five."

"Ninety-seven."

Their room has two beds. Clint is oddly disappointed. But it's 3:30, the train station sandwich he had in Paris was subpar and too long ago, and he is ready to fall over on anything even remotely horizontal. Doing so in a room without shag carpet feels positively luxurious.

"Taking out my ears, last call for disparaging my linguistic ability."

Bucky chokes.

Clint looks over.

Bucky composes himself, pink-faced, avoiding Clint's eyes. Clint's hand goes to one ear, stopping at the last second as he hears Bucky speak in a small voice.

"Hey, Clint?"

"Mm?"

"Thanks."

"For what?"

"Just... thanks."

Clint smiles shyly. "Good night, Bucky."

=====

They sleep in to the early afternoon before venturing out in search of pizza. Clint lucks out with a waiter with limited but passable English, and between that and Clint's _excellent_ command of Italian food names, an enormous quantity of calzone arrives at their table. Bucky watches with mixed awe and horror as Clint puts away twice the amount he does.

"Christ, I thought I had the super metabolism. How does that even all fit in your mouth? Do you unhinge your jaw? Is this a circus thing?"

Clint, mouth full of pizza, makes a disgusting shushing sound, almost spitting out his food.

"What."

Clint swallows and pauses in his mission of pizza destruction. "Don't talk about the circus here! Someone could hear you."

Bucky raises an eyebrow, but lowers his voice. "What, were you in a Hydra circus?"

"No, just... Italy isn't a good place to be from the circus."

"And why is that?"

"A lot of circus people are Roma. All the best circuses, anyway. And it's illegal in Italy."

"What's illegal?"

"If you're Roma? Existing, basically."

"What the hell. I thought we won World War II."

"Yeah well, people are still racists everywhere you go, in one flavour or another. Not everything turned out hunky dory just because the war ended."

"Yeah, that part I got." Bucky looks moodily out the window.

Clint cringes, appetite for pizza momentarily subsumed by thoughts of how non-hunky-dory Bucky's post-war years were.

Eventually Bucky looks up again. "So are you? Roma?"

Clint laughs. "Naw, I'm 100% Iowa white trash. But I still don't want to attract attention. I _am_ a spy, man."

Bucky grins. "If you say so. Okay, no more talking in public about circus-pocus or whatever it is in Italian."

"Circus-pocus? The fuck?"

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Look, I never said I spoke Italian either. Well, I know a little, from the war I guess, but there weren't exactly a lot of circuses on the front lines. If you want to try to trade cigarettes for nylons and chocolate, I'm your man, though."

"I packed my own nylons, I'm good, thanks," Clint says primly, trying to keep a straight face as he turns back to his pizza.

Bucky eyes Clint's thighs speculatively. "That so."

Clint's mind goes to a place. Clint yanks it back. "So you remember the war?"

Bucky's eyebrows tighten and he looks off in to a corner as if some answer is there. "Some. Flashes. It's dumb, I'll remember, like, some whole long conversation with Steve about, about pencils or something, but I can't remember my mom's face. I can't remember my sisters. I had to find out from the fucking Smithsonian that I even had sisters. I don't know if they were older or younger, or if we got along or they were total brats, or, or anything."

"Sometimes with family it's better not to know," Clint says darkly, now also looking off in the corner.

Bucky looks up angrily, about to speak, but catches the look on Clint's face and softens his words. "If you say so."

Fuck, this was getting too heavy for pizza. "So, where do you think we should get pizza for dinner tonight?"

"For f-- You want pizza for dinner, too?"

"I'm a simple man, Mr. Barnes."

=====

They spend a few days in Milan, resting up. Clint does his internet café thing, but still no luck, and if Bucky is working on his promise of contacting Natasha, he doesn't mention it. 

The morning of the fourth day, even Clint admits he's had enough pizza for now, and he and Bucky pull up a map on the laptop to plan their next step.

"This time let's pick somewhere where we both actually speak the language."

Clint grins. "Fine, fine."

"So what do you speak, purple man? English, Russian, and...?"

Clint had broken his incognito instincts the night before in the face of a gorgeous purple cashmere scarf, and Bucky hadn't stopped giving him shit about how it would match his spandex outfit ever since. "German, Japanese, a little bit of Arabic. Very rusty Arabic. You?"

"I'm not totally sure."

"You're not... you don't know what languages you speak?"

"I know some, obviously. But then sometimes I'll hear someone speaking another language and I realize oh, I know that."

"Fucked up."

"Yeah. But handy, I guess. It's the same with weapons. I don't remember my training, like, any training, but obviously..." he trails off, waving his hand in a gesture that Clint takes to mean "I am the baddest killing-machine in recorded history with any weapon from a nuke to a piece of masking tape, but I don't want to talk about it." 

Bucky picks up the conversation again. "So uh... languages. That I know of, English, Russian, German, French, Romanian, Czech, Icelandic--"

"Icelandic?!"

"Yeah, that was a weird day."

"You weren't sent to kill Björk, were you?"

Bucky looks pained. "Can we not talk about this."

"Sorry! Sorry." Clint knocks his knee gently against Bucky's and puts on a hangdog expression. Bucky smiles a little and goes on.

"...Icelandic, Korean, Yiddish, and Hebrew."

"Huh. Are you Jewish?"

"Hell if I know."

Clint waggles an eyebrow. "Are you circumcised?"

Bucky looks Clint up and down. "I disclose that strictly on a need-to-know basis."

Clint raises both eyebrows. "Oh yeah? What kind of clearance do I have so far?"

Bucky reddens and looks back at the map. "Tell you when you're older."

Clint can feel colour in his cheeks too. What is he, sixteen again? What is he thinking?

Bucky pokes the map on the edge of Germany. "How about Baden-Baden? We can both order coffee there without looking like idiots."

"Ooh, and go to the spa there!"

"I was thinking more of the Canadian military base."

Clint looks skeptical. "The decommissioned several decades ago, ps the cold war is over military base?"

"The infiltrated by Hydra, Bucky still has the entry code to a fully-stocked not-on-the-official-plans bunker one, yeah, that base."

"Geez, I thought infiltrating SHIELD was bad. But Canada, that's cold, man."

Bucky peers at Clint. "Was that a joke?"

"Tell you when you're older."


	4. Baden-Baden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which we finally earn the explicit rating!

They're halfway to Germany when Clint thinks to ask if Hydra still _uses_ the bunker.

"Oh, yeah, but it's like, what, 12 guys?" 

Clint smiles. He has some frustration with Hydra to work out, and this sounds perfect.

=====

"Jesus Christ, how do you kill 7 guys with 6 arrows and then break your nose on the fucking doorknob on the way out? How do you even do that? How is that a thing."

"I told you we should have gone to the spa."

"You and the spa."

"My cuticles are a mess. So are yours, actually."

"What the hell is a cuticle?"

"Just set my damn n--OW"

"It's set."

"I got that, thanks."

=====

Hydra lackeys disposed of, they set off to explore the bunker for supplies and make sure it's clear of hiding goons, mad scientists, etc. Clint is in a room full of delicious, delicious ammunition, deciding on a side-arm, when he hears loud clanging coming from Bucky's direction. He takes off at a run, cautiously looking around the door when he reaches his position.

"Bucky?"

The clanging stops and Bucky looks up from a pile of rubble, a weird, bent piece of metal in his left hand. Clint looks closer at the pile and sucks in a hissing breath through his teeth.

"It was one of those chairs."

Bucky nods.

"Well I guess that one is... pretty out of service now."

Bucky nods again, a fierce look of satisfaction on his face.

Clint walks to Bucky's side and puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes firmly for a long moment. Bucky leans his head over to rest it on Clint's shoulder.

"So is that why we're here?"

Bucky closes his eyes before answering, head still pillowed on Clint. "Partly. But there's also a secure communications room that might help us get in touch with your Natalia."

Clint turns his head, cheek brushing against Bucky's hair. "Natalia," he says softly. "Why do you call her that?"

Bucky's face scrunches up. "I don't know. I don't know."

Clint's hand drops to rub slow circles on Bucky's shoulder-blades, and he turns a little, leaning over so their foreheads meet. "Hey, hey. It's okay. You don't have to."

=====

It's been a long, train-y, shoot-y, destroy-y day, and they decide to tackle the comm centre after showers, food, and a good night's sleep. Canada's finest MREs, technically expired but probably still safe to eat until cockroaches rule the earth, go down like a gourmet meal after the day's work. Clint amuses himself by trying to read aloud the French directions on the packets inside. Bucky corrects his pronunciation at first before finally figuring out that Clint is fucking it up just to mess with him, at which point he scowls and decamps to the shower. 

After viewing the spartan barracks for the grunts, they decide wordlessly to take what must have been the commander's bedroom, decked out in comparative splendour with a queen bed, a desk and bureau, and an attached bathroom. Clint finds a change of sheets in a cupboard in the bathroom and sets to making the bed up with unusually un-slob-like vigour. No way is he sleeping in a bed with Hydra cooties.

After the Milan Hilton, Clint is kind of looking forward to sharing a bed. He's not planning anything, just... it's nice, having someone there. And this bed is a hell of a lot bigger than the cramped single in Paris, so he's less worried about embarrassing himself if he wakes up to Barnacle Bucky again. 

The lights are out save for a dim night-light in the bathroom, and isn't that a weird touch in a military bunker. His aids are on the bedside table. He's curled up to sleep, considerately facing away, when he feels a hand brush his arm. He rolls over. Bucky is saying something, his face nervous and hopeful all at once. Clint frowns and squints, and can just make out in the dim light Bucky mouthing "Can I?" Can he what? But he's already tucking himself under Clint's arm, and Clint - oh. Clint is very okay with this. 

"Sure you can," he says, hoping he's not speaking too loud for the night-time quiet. "Sure you can." 

Clint can feel Bucky's "Mm" in response as vibration against his chest, and he drifts off to sleep rubbing his hand slowly back and forth on Bucky's back as Bucky relaxes, melting against him muscle by muscle. If this is a dream, Clint will take a dozen, please.

=====

He awakens suddenly the next morning when Bucky sits up with a jolt and teleports sideways about 30 centimetres. "Hunh?" Clint offers blearily. Bucky, eyes wide, is talking rapidly. Clint holds up a finger and says "Hang on. Ears." and leans over the bed to paw at the table for his aids. "Okay, run that by me again?" 

"Fuck, Clint, I'm sorry."

"You're... sorry? About what?" Clint is a little muzzy still and tries to remember if there were any grave offences he should remember. Usually in his life it's the other way around. 

Bucky waves between them vaguely. "For..."

Clint's brain comes in to focus. Oh. Ohhh. This, he can fix.

He recovers the space between them and leans in, an arm casually propped up behind Bucky, looking in to his eyes with a neutral expression belied by his closeness. "You're sorry for..."

Bucky's face freezes for a moment, recalculating. His gaze drops to Clint's lips, and slowly his shoulders edge down, losing their previous tension. He looks back up, sucks his own lower lip in to his mouth for a moment, and Clint smiles a tiny encouraging smile, eyebrows raised expectantly. "For... nothing, I guess." He sounds a little astonished by this.

Clint brushes a finger against Bucky's cheek. "S'funny you should mention that. I don't feel sorry about anything either," and he's not sure if it's him or Bucky who moves first, but they're kissing now, slow and tender and delicious and holy shit, today is so going to be better than yesterday by like times one million.

Bucky laughs. "A million, huh?"

Clint puts a hand behind his neck sheepishly. "Did I say that out loud?"

Bucky grins. "Maybe a little bit."

Clint decides to solve this problem by leaning in for another kiss, and where the first one was soft and sweet, this one is anything but. Clint tilts his head and licks along Bucky's lips, tasting him, Bucky opening his mouth tentatively at first, and then as if a switch is thrown, taking enthusiastic control, fisting Clint's hair to position his head, exploring, humming happily in to his mouth. Clint makes an embarrassing keening noise that spurs Bucky on further, and he slides his hands under Bucky's shirt, running them along his sides, up his chest, brushing his thumbs over suddenly alert nipples. Bucky gasps, breaking the kiss to draw in breath. 

"Those are... ah! Those are some good calluses you got there, Barton."

"I aim to please. And you know I never miss."

Bucky cackles, bonking their heads together accidentally and backing off to rub his forehead. "Oh my god, you are such a dork."

Clint doesn't even try to deny it, just grins like a loon and tugs at Bucky's shirt. "Unh! Off!"

"Yeah, yeah, hold your horses." Bucky pulls his t-shirt up and over his head and tosses it to the floor beside the bed. Clint can't help it; his eyes go straight to the angry scarring where the metal arm joins his body. It's kind of a relief; seeing the scars in warm, moving context salves the grim mental pictures from the file a bit. Yes, I have been hurt, but I survived, I'm here now. Specifically, here in Clint's lap, hnngh. While Clint was taking stock of Bucky's scars, Bucky has straddled him, and Clint's attention is now 100% back in the present. Maybe 120%. Holy shit.

"My eyes are up here, you cad."

"Mmm... not interested in eyes." Clint takes a nipple in his mouth, teasing it gently with his teeth while his fingers play with the other. Now Bucky is the one keening, tossing his head back and running his hands along Clint's flank. Clint switches sides and Bucky breathes out hard, groaning, and starts rucking up Clint's shirt. Clint leans back for a moment to tug it off and toss it aside. He catches Bucky watching hungrily, his teeth worrying his lower lip. He frames Bucky's face with warm hands and leans in for another kiss. Jesus Christ, how is he this lucky?

Bucky, clearly a master of situational awareness, has slid a hand further down, cups Clint's balls, runs a thumb up the line of Clint's very hard, very interested cock. "Something I can help you with?"

Clint's brain is oozing out his ears, his concentration dissolving rapidly in the motion of Bucky's thumb, but he's Clinton Francis Barton, so he still can't leave any opportunity to ruin the moment alone. He moans and says "Yeah, could you do my taxes?"

Bucky's hand freezes and then he grips Clint's cock through his boxers, shaking with held-in laughter. "CLINT. What is even wrong with you." But he's snickering as he leans in to kiss the tip of Clint's nose, above Clint's goofy sorry-not-sorry grin, and adds "I'll let that go. This time. Next time, I'm calling my CPA, see if I don't." 

"Aw, I'll be good!" 

"Yeah? Prove it."

Oh it's ON NOW. Clint doubts he's stronger than the Winter Goddamn Soldier in any measure, even his mad archery biceps, but the element of surprise is everything. He flips them easily, grinding his hips against Bucky's, one hand ineffectively trying to edge Bucky's boxer-briefs down, the other pinning his hands above his head. This is where it's clear Bucky is just going along with him; the metal hand that crushed a padlock in Paris is only staying up there if it damn well feels like it. A little glowstick in Clint's heart cracks and comes to life thinking about the trust he is being offered in this moment. 

He bends down to kiss Bucky, sloppy and wet and filthy, and comes up for air panting. "How'm I doing so far, sweetheart?"

Bucky smiles lazily and stretches, hips pressing up against Clint's, their lengths rubbing against each other in, hngh, a really, really nice way. "Eh, so far so good."

Clint raises an eyebrow as if to say "Is that all?" and takes it as a challenge. He points at Bucky's hands and says "Stay." and moves his hands to prop himself up better, begins to kiss along Bucky's jaw and neck.

"Stay? Arf arf? Do I fetch next?"

Clint moves back to Bucky's mouth and digs in with a single-minded focus, tongue and lips taking Bucky apart, drawing out a hungry moan that ends in a ragged pant as Clint breaks the kiss. He grins and says "Yep. Stay." and resumes kissing down Bucky's neck, this time without eliciting commentary in words. 

But Bucky speaks in other ways, leaning in to the kisses, shuddering at sensitive spots, moving back and then leaning back in, chasing the line of too much, not enough, too much. Clint kisses down, stops to pay court to swollen nipples with tongue and teeth, and finally sits up to work Bucky's briefs off entirely. He admires the view with a wolfish grin, scoots down the bed, and presses a kiss to the head of Bucky's cock. He looks up at Bucky, whose hands are still languidly resting above his head on the pillow, to check in. "Is this..?"

"Oh hell yes."

"I was hoping you'd say that." Bucky's mostly hard, a few drops of pre-come beginning to glisten on the head. (Circumcised: check.) Clint laps them up, grips his cock and gives it a few firm strokes to test the waters. Bucky groans and there's no mostly about it anymore; he's hard as rebar under that velvety skin. Clint breathes in fresh musk and takes him in his mouth, a few fingers gripping the base of his cock past the point his lips can reach. Bucky gasps and his hips start involuntarily. God Clint loves this. He slowly starts moving up and down, tongue licking up the underside, Bucky keening and moaning and writhing.

Lube, is there any lube in this place? No, no, forget it, forget it, Clint doesn't want Hydra lube. He pulls his mouth off briefly, moistens two fingers, and swallows Bucky down again, pressing his hips down with one hand to stay in control of the angle and pressure as his head rises and falls, sucking and suckling by turns. He slides his left hand between Bucky's thighs, squeezing his ass, trailing a finger between the cheeks, circling his entrance with it. Bucky is not even trying to keep his hands up anymore; his metal hand is clenched in the sheet and he is biting down on his right hand to keep from crying out and oh god Clint might come just from thinking about that.

He presses a finger inside Bucky's hole and his thumb firmly against his perineum. Bucky groans loudly, muffled by his hand, and Clint is chalking himself up a point on an imaginary score board, debating if it's time to try a second finger, when Bucky cries out in a surprised voice "Oh! Fuck, I'm--" and he's coming, he's coming so hard and he tastes so, so good. Clint seals his mouth more firmly around Bucky's cock, gentling him through it, fingers of his free hand softly petting his balls where they've drawn in underneath, swallowing his come down as a smug grin begins to form. He laps around the head a final time and lays his head down contentedly on Bucky's thigh, idly mouthing at the soft skin there as he basks in Bucky's warmth.

"Sorry, I--- It's been a--" Bucky sounds _flattened_ , cheeks flushed, forehead beaded with sweat. 

Clint's smug grin gets smugger. He's practically a smuggler now, he decides, but manages - barely - to keep that comment to himself, remembering that he's on thin ice after the taxes thing.

"Naw, you're fine. That's the best part." Clint pops his finger out of Bucky's hole in a quick motion that makes Bucky squeak and clench.

"Gah! Brat!"

"It's a problem," Clint admits solemnly. He snakes up the bed, cuddles in to Bucky's armpit, and closes his eyes, thumb idly brushing against Bucky's how-are-those-real abs, cock snugged up against Bucky's leg.

"Mmm. You're very problematic. Got any problems I can solve for you?" Bucky tugs at the waistband of Clint's very-askew-at-this-point boxers.

"Maaaaaybe. Hang on, let me fix my outfit." Clint wiggles out of them and kicks them off the bed. They land neatly on his duffle, on the far side of the bed, out of his direct view, exactly where his shirt had landed earlier.

"Show-off."

Clint shrugs. "It's my thing."

Bucky takes Clint in hand. "So what's this then?"

Clint shudders. "Very.. happy.. to see you."

Bucky hops up on an elbow, then straddles Clint, putting an arm to each side and leaning in to kiss him, long and slow. "Why don't you show me what you like?" 

Clint smiles in to a renewed kiss, and stretches his hand down, strokes himself a few times before Bucky places a hand - oh god, the _metal hand_ , why is that sexy instead of terrifying - over top, adding pressure and warmth and somehow feeling impossibly strong and impossibly gentle all at once. Bucky kisses Clint's jaw, his cheek, murmurs in his ear. "You going to come for me, sweetheart?" 

Clint had definitely been planning on that, yep, but the timeline escalates rapidly as all the blood in his BODY rushes in to his cock at the sound of that low, rumbling voice in his ear. "Y-yeah. Yeah I th-think I just m-m-might." Clint manages. 

Bucky pushes himself up a bit, still casually holding himself plank-stiff above him with just his right arm, fuck that's hot, and looks Clint in the eyes. He brushes Clint's hand off his member and takes over, metal hand touching him just right, warm and firm, and ohhhh now moving ever so slightly faster. Eyes still locked with Clint's, that low voice growls out "Well. I'd really. Like. To watch that." and Clint is GONE, he is coming so, so hard, and Bucky is stroking him through it, eyes crinkling as they meet Clint's wide-eyed stupor, murmuring encouragement. 

Clint blows out a huge breath as he finishes, eyes fluttering, brain substituted for an InstantPot full of Thought Mush. Bucky, a tender expression on his face, kisses his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, his lips; then crawls off the bed, walking to the bathroom. He returns with a damp cloth, cleans up, sets it on the night-stand.

"Bluhn," says Clint articulately, smiling foolishly over his shoulder at Bucky as he settles back on the bed, tugging Clint in to place as the little spoon.

"Me too, pal. Me too."

=====

After another breakfast of Canuck MREs ("What the fuck is a serviette?" "A napkin in Canadian, apparently.") they decide to tackle the comms room. Bucky sits down at the main console and digs in. Clint is a fair hand at computing, has infiltrated his share of enemy bases with an eye to yoinking data, but Bucky has been using Hydra's system for literal decades. His fingers are flying and Clint gives up on trying to track what's going on.

"What are you doing?"

"Honestly? I'm not really sure, not exactly. If I think about it too hard I get a little lost." Bucky laughs bitterly. "I guess I must have done a lot of... whatever. But I'm pretty sure I can find a way to suss out where your friend is. I don't know the details, but I have this... I feel really certain about the thing I'm doing?" He passes a hand through his hair. "It's hard to explain."

Man. The inside of Bucky's head must be 95% frustration, with that kind of gap in, in everything. Clint would be just non-stop punching the shit out of things. Which... probably explains a lot about Bucky's brutal fighting style.

Clint checks out the rest of the room, avoiding touching anything that might be a radio. File cabinets with, from what files he pulls and scans briefly, boring status reports about nothing much happening in Baden-Baden. They were mostly marking time or passing out supplies to passing convoys, downgraded to General Store status after the Winter Soldier's transfer to North America made the chair room onsite a storage locker instead of a weapon launch site. Clint shivers at the thought and leaves the files where they are.

There's a TV, or he's pretty sure it's a TV, on one wall, and he figures receiving a broadcast won't be risky in the way that radio would. He turns it on, mutes it, and hops around, looking for maybe a wacky German game show to pass the time. Is that a thing in Germany?

Bucky sighs at his screen. "This could... take longer than I thought."

Clint freezes, eyes glued to the television. "I think it may not actually be necessary."

On-screen, a news broadcaster is reporting about the latest wrinkles in the Hydra/SHIELD debacle in America, and a clip is showing of a Senate hearing. Sassing back at the senators is Natasha Romanov. Her parting words are "You'll know where to find me."

Well. That settles that.

=====

Clint heads out of the base to get cell reception for one of their burner phones, and calls the Avengers tower. Some rando number from Europe doesn't exactly get piped straight through to Tony, so he asks reception if he can talk to J.A.R.V.I.S.

"Speak to... J.A.R.V.I.S.?"

"Yeah! You know, talking A.I. guy? Elevator voice dude? Put him on!"

"You can't just... he's not a--"

"Mr. Barton, my apologies for the delay."

God, Clint loved that man. A.I. Whatever.

"Did you wish to speak to Sir?"

"Hey J! Actually, I was wondering if you knew how I could get a hold of Natasha."

"As it happens, she is on the premises. I will see if she can be interrupted."

"She can. Whatever it is. Tell her it's me and if she's mad, it'll uh. It'll be totally normal?"

"Of course, sir." Clint is not sure if A.I.s can snicker, but he gets the impression J.A.R.V.I.S. would be strongly tempted if so.

"Who is this."

"Nat! Oh my god I've been trying to find you for so long."

"You could have just called, придурок."

"Yeah I missed you too. Look I was a little distracted, with the people suddenly shooting at my undisclosed location ass all of a sudden."

"I did what I had to."

Clint softens his voice a bit. "Aw, I know. That dump probably screwed you more than it screwed me. But I didn't know if it was safe to make contact until now."

"So where are you? I can be anywhere in a quinjet in five hours."

"I can't come in right now."

"What?"

"It's complicated, but I promise I'm okay."

Natasha snorts. "I doubt that. I've met you, Clint."

Clint rolls his eyes, which, actually, okay, hurts his nose a bit. He did break it yesterday. "Relatively speaking, I mean."

"Right." She sighs. "Well, it's not like I have any pressing SHIELD missions I need a partner for right now. Mostly it's just trying to run like hell from bureaucrats who want to rope someone who isn't them in to cleaning up this shitshow."

Clint barks a laugh. "If it's paperwork hell I am DOUBLE not coming in. Listen. Save this number, or get J.A.R.V.I.S. to or whatever. I'm gonna turn the phone off, but I'll check it once a day for texts, okay? If you need me, just... you know I'll come if you need me."

=====

Bucky comes out to sit in the grass next to Clint. "That was risky. The signal could have been traced."

Clint smiles sadly. "I'm pretty sure J.A.R.V.I.S. did that right away, just on spec. He _was_ made by Tony. You hear most of that?"

Bucky taps his ears. "Supersoldier. Superhearing. Yeah."

"I don't think Tony is going to send a snoop patrol out, at least not immediately. I know it sounds weird, but... I trust J.A.R.V.I.S. not to rat us out. I mean, we should still move on, but I don't think it's a panic."

Bucky looks uncomfortable.

Clint frowns. "Hey, what's up? If it's the food, we can bring the poutine MREs..."

Bucky barks a surprised laugh, grins, shakes his head, then resumes his grim countenance. "You should go back to your friends."

Clint looks up sharply. "You're my friend too. And none of my reasons to stay have changed. I promised. You can't get rid of me that easy."

Bucky scowls. "You decided that when you didn't have a place to go back to. Now you do. You can go back to the states and live like a normal person, not scurry from place to place with a brain-damaged ghost."

Clint sets down the phone, moves over to pull Bucky's head in to his lap, stroking his back as he talks. "Hey. Listen to me. You are not broken."

"Clint. I'm--"

"Let me finish. You're not broken. You're healing, yeah, you've got a lot of shit going on, and things are going to be weird for a long time. But you're a whole person, not a ghost, not a weapon, not a bag of busted parts. You're a survivor. Life has thrown you probably the worst fucking hand anyone's ever been dealt, but you get back up, you dust off your chaps, you get moving again. I would be _honoured_ if you let me hitch my wagon to your star."

Bucky looks down. "Clint."

"Present."

"That's a pretty convoluted collage of metaphors you got there."

Clint looks up at the sky, shading his eyes. "Yeah, well. The inspirational speeches were always Cap's department."

"Steve..."

"I didn't tell Nat. I'm not going to tell Nat. For what it's worth, I think he'd be overjoyed to see you, risk or no risk. But that's not my choice and I'm not going to force your hand."

Bucky picks out dried up grass strands one by one, staring at the ground, head still resting in Clint's lap.

"Plus you're amazing in the sack and you'd have to beat me off with a stick to keep me from following you around. Seriously, you ditch me and it's stalker time ASAP."

Bucky huffs a laugh. "That so?"

"Oh yeah. Creeping at your window, notes with cut out newspaper letters, calls with heavy breathing, I'm ready."

"That is such a fucked up way of saying you want to be with me, you realize that, right?"

Clint laughs. "You thought there was going to be anything normal about us?"

Bucky rolls over, looks up at Clint. "So you want there to be an us?"

Clint breathes in, looks down. "Bucky... I want that so much. I want that more than pizza."

Bucky snorts, chokes on air as he's laughing, has to sit up while Clint thwacks him on the back until he's breathing normally again. Wiping tears from his eyes, he looks over at Clint. "Okay. Okay. It's a deal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poutine MREs weren't actually introduced to Canadian IMP's until 2015, but ARTISTIC LICENSE IN THE NAME OF GRAVY, yo.


	5. New York

They're in Bucharest a month later when Bucky brings it up again. Clint is getting a bit stir-crazy - Bucky does most of the shopping, since while Russian is not uncommon here, it attracts a hostility that Bucky's easy way with Romanian diffuses. Romanian television is... not 100% Clint's jam, and even his sniper-mode patience is starting to get bored of the 4 English-language novels they have. He's been drawing mustaches on the characters in Bucky's Oncle Picsou comics, panel by panel, and suspects this creeping waterfowl hirsutism may have been the motivating factor in Bucky reopening the discussion.

"No. I thought we settled this, Bucky. I'm not leaving you." He leans in, twines an arm around Bucky like a vine preparing to crumble a brick wall bit by bit. "I don't want to leave you and I won't leave you. There's nothing in New York that comes close. I can't believe I get to have you in my life and I'm not letting go, not for anything."

"I just.. I don't want to be the reason you spend your life hiding, Clint. I don't know if I'm worth that."

Clint shakes his head, about to argue, but stops, eyes focused on some invisible spot mid-air like a cat.

"Clint?"

"What if we could do both? What if there was a way I can go back to New York and you can stay safe?"

"I thought all your safe houses were exposed. I'm not going to stay in that tower with Steve. You know I can't."

"I kind of have... a building I sort of own. By accident. It's not a safehouse exactly, but it's a house, and it's safe. It's my house. No avengers in any of the apartments, it's a rule in the lease."

"You sort of own it. By accident."

"Uh. Yeah. See I..."

Bucky motions him to stop. "Clint, I wholeheartedly believe that you have managed to accidentally sort of own a building. Knowing the details would just erode my faith in reality."

Clint pauses, trying to work out if this is a compliment or not.

Bucky sighs. "Okay, tell me about this building."

=====

Getting home is surprisingly complicated. Getting Bucky and his arm, let alone the number of firearms he prefers to keep on his person, through airport security is just a non-starter. What worked at St. Pancras - crawling over security through the ceiling, it turns out, and Clint just about tackled Bucky and tore his clothes off as he lustfully listened to that story - isn't reliable enough for airport after airport full of pseudo-cops and difficult to access building plans. 

But they're both burly enough to pass for longshoremen, or anyway people at ports and aboard freighters are kinder about looking the other way in exchange for a financial token of appreciation, and they make the bulk of their trip by boat. Clint thinks they might have even gotten a break on the bribe for looking like the kind of dudes who would be helpful in a pirate attack. Which is a ho-hum workplace hazard in freighter life, apparently, actual goddamn pirates. The real world sure seems fake sometimes.

Bucky is jumpy the whole trip, memories popping up unbidden: being on troop ships in wartime, and later, being transported on container-ships, sometimes conscious, sometimes not, sometimes defrosted mid-trip for training or just because his handlers were bored. Bucky was a city boy right up to the day he put on Army drab; there's nothing positive about boats in his past for him to conjure up. Clint holds him through nightmares, talks him through spacey moments on deck - he looks it up later and they sound a lot like absence seizures. But who knows what they are, it's not like there's anyone else out there whose brain has been through what Bucky's has. He hopes.

But there are nice moments too - looking up at the night sky on the open sea is something magical; and the monotony of freighter life brings a kind of peace that Bucky, especially, sinks in to with pleasure. And they join the 30-feet-high club, which Clint thinks beats the mile-high club hands-down on every count, even after getting a serious knock to the head during some enthusiastic club activity one evening, where the ship rocked starboard while Clint thrust port.

"You think it'll leave a mark?"

"Sorry, pal, just a goose egg. Didn't even break the skin."

"Awwww I wanted a sex scar."

"I'm kind of amazed you don't already have one, sweetcheeks."

It takes almost a month in all - train from Bucharest to Le Havre, several days wait and then two weeks on a freighter to the port of Savannah, then 2 bleary days of Amtrak to New York. After the trains of Europe, even in the Warsaw pact countries, Amtrak is bit of a rude awakening. But they're toughened soldiers; they can endure even microwaved cheeseburgers in the name of stealth.

They've both cultured a serious level of scraggle on the trip in the name of staying incognito; when they finally walk in the door to his place in Bed-Stuy, Clint isn't sure what he wants most: sleep, a shower, or a shave. He and Bucky trade off turns accomplishing the latter two - for once too exhausted to soap up together in the shower - and crash in to bed in Clint's room. No, in _their_ room. Clint grins at this thought as he's taking out his aids, and leans over to press a kiss on an already asleep Bucky's forehead and whisper: "Welcome home."

=====

The Avengers are surprised but pleased at Clint's return, and if he has an extra bounce in his step, well, he's just happy to be home again, right? 

And he is, too - for all that it would have been worth it to him to give it up for Bucky, having both is pretty damn great. Heading out with the team to arrow the fuck out of robots, or Hydra goons, or escaped mutant goats, or whatever the hell was Avenger-worthy that week - it filled up a part of him that had been empty for half a year. Sinking in to the place of his mastery, the moment of releasing an arrow and knowing it will strike true. Kicking out of a back-flip, because he might be pushing forty, but you better believe circus boys are bendy. Backing up his team, and knowing that they have his back in turn.

And doing all that and having someone to come home to? It's pretty amazing.

Bucky stays in almost all the time at first, but after a while starts going out, carefully, quietly. Unlike Clint in London, Bucky can definitely disappear in a city the size of New York. He avoids Manhattan, land of accidental Avengers exposure, and only visits the parts of Brooklyn he grew up in when Clint can go with him, to cover for him if he triggers new memories at an awkward moment. 

But for the most part he can range free in the city, and does, soaking in all the things he missed in his long years of servitude, reading endless library books, watching movies, looking at the new buildings that have appeared, visiting museums to see the exhibits instead of the security systems, people-watching in crowds for the pleasure of it rather than to surveil a mark, trying new food in all the endless variety New York has on offer. And Clint, Clint soaks it all in too, can't wait to hear what new thing Bucky has delighted in, discovers it all over again himself through Bucky's eyes.

It turns out a Bucky who goes out regularly in the light of day develops a spray of freckles across his nose and shoulders. He crinkles his nose in irritation when Clint points them out, which just makes them cuter. He puts up with it. Love comes with sacrifice, after all.

=====

There are rough moments too; the memories don't stop coming, and there are a lot more bad ones than good to be had. But even waking up from a nightmare is better with company.

Tonight it's Clint's turn for a change. Where Bucky's nightmares come with the maddening fog of uncertainty that attends all his memories, Clint's are razor sharp. Loki's sneer as he says "You have heart" snaps to his father's fists on his mother's face, to Barney saying "You should have known better, little brother" and leaving him for dead, to the memory of how close he came to shooting Natasha at their first meeting before deciding to duck orders and bring her in. He's in Stuttgart, pulling an eyeball out of his pocket to open the door, this time selecting it from a dozen still-living eyeballs for some reason, their owners screaming in his mind, his hands working without him, his face _smiling_ without him--

He wakes up shaking, and he must have been screaming; Bucky is wide awake and already holding him, rocking him back and forth, stroking his hair. By now Bucky has figured out not to bother trying to speak in these moments; even in full light Clint is too shaken to read lips. He speaks with the language of caresses and stolid presence, and eventually Clint starts to relax. Bucky passes him the case with his aids from the nightstand and gets up to heat up some milk for Clint. Clint is pretty sure this is a 1930s thing, and he loves it, loves the care and the matter-of-fact sweetness of Bucky getting up to fix it. 

He comes back, and Clint blows on the milk to cool it a bit and sips at it until it's half done.

"Bad one?"

"Eyeballs. Don't... don't want to talk about it."

"Eyeballs, bleurgh. Don't blame ya." Bucky sidles closer, shucking the bathrobe he'd put on to creep out to the kitchen. It's Clint's; bright purple with pink lips all over it, made of some decadently floofy material that looked like a hunting trophy from a muppet. "Not a lot of selection for the sophisticated purple shopper," he'd explained when Bucky first saw it and snickered, but judging by how often he steals it, he's come around on the issue.

"So no talking. How about a distraction?"

Clint looks over. "Well now that has appeal. Do you feel distracting?"

Bucky's eyes darken, a wicked grin starting to form. "Oh I am about to be a serious menace to traffic. Five-car pile-up minimum."

Clint grins back. "I'd better keep you off the road, then." Bucky leans in for a kiss, and then it's all scrambling arms to get out of t-shirts and sleep pants and boxers, joyful wrestling to set aside the night's unpleasantness. Bucky sinks his teeth in to Clint's shoulder and Clint makes a very gratifying noise in response, shuddering agreeably and completely forgetting whatever his hands were on their way to do as Bucky takes the wheel.

Bucky nips his way up to Clint's ear and soft and low and heated asks: "How do you want to be distracted, sweetheart?"

Clint thinks it's cute how he puts that in a future tense, because Clint is very. goddamn. distracted. already. "Nnnnh. Want you. Want you to fuck me." he manages, and he must even have said the words in an order that made sense, because Bucky growls happily and reaches over to the nightstand for lube, stopping to coat his fingers with a preliminary salvo before returning to rub up against Clint. Clint is half hard with an option on more; Bucky is chubbing up fast to catch up and the friction between them as Bucky kisses Clint deep and hard, pushing his hips rhythmically against Clint's, does the rest of the job. 

"Fuck, I love the way you feel," Bucky murmurs against Clint's lips, kissing him intermittently as one hand reaches down to his ass, spreading his cheeks, slipping a finger inside his tight hole. Clint makes a hungry noise and bucks his hips, fucking himself against the finger. 

"Someone's eager," Bucky says smugly, smiling at Clint with a pleasant heat.

"When am I not?" Clint asks.

Bucky pretends to think. "Last Thursday."

"I was in hospital, that doesn't count."

"Well you asked," Bucky says, cutting off the risk of a snappy retort by pulling his finger out and pushing in with two fingers all at once, pressing all the way in and crooking them to hit Clint's prostate.

"Oh FUCK!"

"You okay, sweetheart?"

"I," pants Clint "am fucking _excellent_ , thank you for asking."

Bucky laughs. "Well that's just what I like to hear." He returns to kissing Clint, sucking on his tongue and drawing out little keening noises as his fingers scissor him open. He adds a third finger, slowly pushing in and out, pressing slow and firm on the inside as his thumb presses on Clint's perineum. 

Clint is making incoherent little "Ah! Ah! Ah!" noises and rubbing his forehead against Bucky's face. Bucky grins evilly and slows everything down to a glacial pace.

"Nnnnnnnnnnnnngh"

"What do you want sweetheart? Just tell me."

"Want. Want." Clint huffs and tries to remember how words even work. "Want you inside me."

"Oh, why didn't you say so?"

Clint flicks Bucky on the nose, and Bucky laughs as he flips Clint easily, setting him down gently for all that the action seemed brusque. Clint never gets tired of seeing the control and finesse Bucky has over his incredible strength; it's something like the feeling he gets from hitting a tricky target from a bow with a heavy draw, and it turns him right the fuck on every time.

Bucky is running his metal hand along Clint's spine, soothing his impatience down as his other hand slicks up his cock. He lines himself up and presses in, so, so slowly. Clint is going to die right here, waiting to be fucked, and he has no regrets, he died as he lived, amen. 

Sometimes they make love slow and sweet, sure. With candles even, the whole works. They're saps and not ashamed of it. But after a nightmare? Something a little livelier is called for. Bucky is fully buried in Clint now, a hand on each hip, and he starts to slide in and out, faster and faster, finding a pounding rhythm that leaves Clint no room for thought, only the glorious feeling of being full, his breaths punched out by Bucky's dick, and that little edge of pain from the rough movement that Clint loves, that makes the pleasure that much more intense somehow. 

Bucky is a talker, and if Clint doesn't quite catch every bit of it with the noise of their coupling crackling in his aids, it doesn't matter, because it all boils down to I love you, I love you, I love you. You look so sweet under me, he'll say, I love how you feel, God you feel good on my cock, I love to be inside you, I wanna make you feel so good, sweetheart, so good for me, I can't believe you're mine.

Bucky loves, too, the closeness of skin on skin, and when they aren't facing each other, he'll do as he does now, reaching under Clint's chest with one strong arm and pulling him up, his back to Bucky's chest, his powerful thighs and his other arm fucking Clint on to his dick, and oh god, Clint might just come with his cock untouched, just from the feel of Bucky inside him. But Bucky nuzzles at his ear now that it's in range, nibbling it a bit, and saying softly "Touch yourself for me, baby. I want to feel you come while I'm inside you," and Yes. Fucking. Sir.

Clint starts to stroke himself, slowly at first, trying to stretch out this feeling, but everything is too much, too much, Bucky pounding in to him, adjusting his angle slightly to hit Clint's prostate, and Clint is coming, come spilling over his hand in spurt after spurt, his head lolling back on Bucky's shoulder, and now Bucky's coming too, spurred on by Clint's release. Carefully, so carefully, Bucky eases them down sideways on to the bed, staying inside Clint for the moment. Clint loves this, the closeness of being cuddled up, joined by Bucky's softening cock, coming back to himself enough to feel the pleasant stretch from their activity, feeling Bucky's murmured endearments as a pleasing rumble through his chest.

Eventually he starts to drift off to sleep again, distantly noticing Bucky getting a washcloth to clean them up and laying a towel down on the wet spot in the bed so they can postpone changing the sheets until the morning. He muzzily snuggles in to Bucky's arms when he returns to bed and sleeps dreamlessly through to the morning.

=====

Clint stumbles out in his bathrobe the next morning, or possibly early afternoon, to make coffee, or maybe reheat some of yesterday's coffee if Past Clint didn't drink it all. Sometimes Past Clint is good to him like that, although usually it's by accident. He gets almost all the way to the counter before registering that Natasha, fully dressed and buffing her goddamn nails of all things, is sitting on the kitchen island.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Nat!"

"So, who's your friend?"

"I don't know what you're--- why are you even here?"

"I was just checking on things. Being a good friend."

" _Things_ are fine!"

"Well I know that now. Or... do I?"

"You said you didn't want a key. I distinctly remember asking you if you wanted a key, and you said no."

"Why would I need a key?"

"That is what I'm asking you, Natasha. That is exactly what I am asking you."

"I'm a spy, Clint. I don't need keys."

Clint puts his head in his hands, and a growl starts to colour his voice. He loves Nat, but she cannot BE here right now, and he hasn't even had coffee and everything is terrible. "Well I took it to mean that you _didn't intend to break in to my apartment when I wasn't there._ Out of _professional fucking courtesy_ if respecting my privacy wasn't enough reason."

Natasha makes a little moue. "Who would water your plants then?"

Clint pulls at his hair and looks up. "Nat, I don't HAVE any plants!"

"Exactly. You can't. There's no one to care for them."

"Clint. Just make some coffee. She knows I'm here, you don't need to let her toy with you on my account." Bucky, in sleep pants and a tank top from Clint's closet, is standing in the doorway to the living room.

Natasha draws a hissing breath in through her teeth and levitates to the floor, gun drawn, staring at Bucky in shock.

"Clint, why is _the Winter Soldier_ in your apartment."

Clint, still feeling peevish, is not in the mood to explain. "I don't know, Natasha, it seems like my apartment is just _really popular_ today. Maybe it's technically a public park."

Bucky holds his hands up, expression calm. "I'm sorry. About what happened in D.C. I'm not here to hurt anyone."

Natasha turns her head slightly, gun not dropping, but posture a little more open.

"I'm not... I don't do that anymore. I don't remember everything, but I know I'm not theirs. I will never be theirs again."

There is a long, tense, silence, and Natasha lowers her gun. "Only you, Clint, could _accidentally_ collect the most wanted fugitive of all time in your apartment."

Clint frowns. "How do you know it was accidental?"

Bucky and Natasha both give Clint a Look.

"...okay it was kind of accidental."

Bucky keeps his hands open, non-threatening. "Natalia..."

Natasha's eyes widen, her posture going tense and... small, somehow. She whispers: "You remember me?"

Bucky looks at his feet, forehead creased. "A little. Enough to know you were... someone important to me. And to know that you should never... that you and all those other little girls..." Bucky's face scrunches up tighter. He is visibly struggling to find the words he needs, closes his eyes and lets out a frustrated sigh, and looks up at Natasha with wet eyes.

She brings a hand up to cover her mouth. "Боевой учитель"

He nods. "But not anymore. Not ever again. I'm just... just Bucky. Or..." he pauses, frowning. "You used to... James. It... You called me James."

She nods, eyes widening even further. Clint has actually _forgotten about coffee_ , he is so transfixed by the unlikeliness of this scene.

"I'm not... him anymore either, exactly. But it's a lot closer. I can be James to you if you like."

"I'm... glad we don't have to shoot each other today, James. Right? No shooting?"

Bucky grins. "No shooting. Promise."

=====

They settle in for a lengthy chat mostly conducted in cryptic Russian at speed, and Clint feels like an intruder even with the little he manages to catch. He steps out for a walk and returns with coffee and pastries, and is reassured to find everyone still alive.

"He wants to see you, James. He wants nothing more in the world. And he's not fragile. You couldn't break him last time."

"It's not about that! Of course I know he'd live. That's not the point."

It sounds like they've been going in circles on this for a while. Clint settles next to Bucky on the couch, a quiet support. Bucky absently rubs his thigh and breathes a little easier. Clint sees Natasha notice this and she directs a wistful smile at Clint.

She refocuses on Bucky. "So what is the point?"

"I can't... I couldn't... I couldn't handle it if we met and I lost it, found out I was still trying to obey my last orders. I don't _think_ I will, but I can't check, and Steve..."

"Steve what?"

"Natalia, last time, Steve just let me hit him. He didn't lose the fight, he gave it up completely. He threw away his shield and lay back and just, just LET me hit him. I just about punched him to death, supersoldier or not, and it was just luck, stupid luck that I remembered him enough in time to pull the last punch, to let us fall instead of... I can't go through that again. It's bad enough remembering that once."

Natasha is muttering in Russian again, calling Steve nine kinds of idiot and various other things besides. 

Clint sips his coffee. He's guessing Steve didn't mention that part to Natasha in the debriefing later.

Natasha composes herself. "If that's the issue, I think I can help. Because you don't have to meet him alone. And I don't know if any one of us could take you on if you put your game face on, but together? We've got this. Even if Steve tries to lie back and take it. We. Won't. Let him."

Bucky and Natasha have some kind of intense staring contest, various minute facial changes no doubt telegraphing who's in the lead to someone more subtle than Clint.

Clint sips his coffee some more. He loves these two, and he knows, he knows deep, deep in his bones how much they each love Steve. No matter how this goes down, everything's gonna be okay.

They both look away, but Nat looks smug, and Bucky is scowling.

"We meet here, not at the tower. You don't tell Steve what's going on until you are in the hallway outside. You come with him and Sam comes with him, and you come with weapons drawn. And that hulk guy, Bruce, can he come?"

"I'll see what I can do. He won't change unless something happens, though. It's not... pleasant for him."

Bucky nods. Okay. This is happening.

Clint sips the hell out of his coffee. 

=====

It takes a few weeks to arrange, and they arrive late, Steve apparently kicking his heels about the "party" Sam and Nat want to drag him to. Bucky is fluttering around the apartment, adjusting things nervously, sitting down on the couch only to hop back up again. Finally Clint steers him to an armchair and plunks him down, starts rubbing his bad shoulder, digging his thumb in to the spot that makes Bucky make the best massage face, some kind of perennially sore hot spot created by the fucked up mechanics of his arm. Soon enough they hear heated conversation in the hall as Steve freaks out about Bucky, then demands that everyone put their weapons away, then pouts when that doesn't happen. Clint walks up to the door and shouts through it: "Steve, Bucky won't let me open the door unless they keep their weapons drawn, okay? He wants to see you, but you need to help him out here." Finally Nat knocks on the door and Clint opens it, and a red-faced Steve steps through behind her, a hard-faced Sam finding Bucky in the room and then standing ready, gun in hand. Bucky looks at Natasha and Sam, nods at each of them, a thank you for being willing to be Steve's stupidity safety net. And Steve...

Steve is still just inside the doorway, facing Bucky, jaw hanging loose, frozen in place, looking like he might start to tremble. "Buck..."

"Hey Stevie."

Steve shakes himself and takes a tentative step forward, scowling at the drawn weapons beside him, but continuing, slow step after step until he's nearly at the chair. Bucky stands up, and he _is_ trembling, there's no might about it. Steve opens his arms wide and Bucky dives in to them, and they're hugging, and hugging, and crying, and ohhh Clint might start crying too, he thinks, and he's glad Bucky didn't make _him_ stand weapons duty. There's not a lot Clint wouldn't do for Bucky, but shooting him is definitely on the list. Italics, bold, triple-underlined. No shooting my boyfriend.

The cryhugging transitions to backslapping transitions to sitting on the couch and just looking at each other, drinking the other in, and then incoherent "I thought you were..." "I never thought I'd..." "If I had only..." back and forth until something like normal conversation settles in, and they're laughing and chatting, and the friendship started 80 years before picks up where it left off.

Sam smiles and Natasha walks over to the door, discreetly telling Bruce, who has been waiting outside out of view, "I think we've got this," receiving a shy smile in return and a wave as he departs. Clint makes a mental note to send him a fruit basket or something. Is that a real thing? Delivery fruit?

He'll figure it all out later. For now he'll sip his coffee, beam at Natasha and Sam, and most of all soak in the happiness and relief coming off his sweetheart in waves as this weight is lifted from his heart.

Best accidental assassin ever. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint finds out that not only are fruit baskets a real thing, but you can get them with pineapples carved in to the shape of Hello Kitty. Bruce is touched but very confused by his thank you present.
> 
> Bucky changes the subject every time Clint mentions Hello Kitty or Björk ever again, saying it's too painful to discuss. Their fifth anniversary is coming up and Clint still can't figure out if Bucky is just messing with him.
> 
> Bucky is definitely just messing with him. Clint's fifth anniversary gift is going to be a Hello Kitty bathrobe and a Björk album. Bucky's gift is going to be Clint's ratty old purple bathrobe. Bucky is going to wrap it and give it to himself because he knows there is absolutely no chance that Clint will remember an anniversary, but let's face it, that bathrobe was permastolen two weeks in to their arrival in New York.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/yamtimesthree), yellin' about Bucky usually.


End file.
